


Prey

by tprillahfiction



Category: Star Trek: Mirror Universe, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Fuck, Mind Rape, Mirror Universe, Rape from POV of the Rapist, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/pseuds/tprillahfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirror Spock has forcibly bonded with McCoy, but it is Spock who must consummate the relationship.</p><p>Originally written for Spiced Peaches 2014.</p><p>One shot.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

“Our minds are merging, Doctor. I feel what you feel. I know what you know.”

The black eyes of the shark, the panther, bears down. That predatory lock upon his. He can’t tear away his gaze. His hand trembles in the vice-like grasp. The icy fingers raise up, and now that’s all he can see, those fingers closing in on his face. They make contact, push into him, penetrate into his mind and the information is taken. But that’s not all that’s taken. Tendrils weave into his mind. Steel, unbroken spider silk that will never be undone.

That mouth is but mere centimeters from his own. The face is close, too close. He feels the warm breath against his face. He’s aware of their hearts beating in tandem. Together. 

“You are mine, Leonard.”

He cannot blink. A single tear rolls down his face. His voice breaks as he says: “I am yours.”

The fingers release their hold on him. He slumps forward, those strong talons grip his arms, hold him tightly before he hits the deck.

*

He comes to as he’s being escorted down the corridor, that hand gripping his arm like a vise. He cannot feel his legs but he’s walking. _Step. Step. Step_. Into the turbolift. Then _step, step, step_. Out of the turbolift. Step. Step. Step. Down the corridor.

And suddenly they are through the doors and in the transporter room. 

“Take him.” 

He’s propelled forward, the claws release him. Scotty takes hold of his arm. A different feeling. Scotty’s hand is a much gentler grasp. The engineer’s eyes are concerned, comforting, curious. What’s happened to the doctor? 

He stares back, unblinking and Scotty’s unnerved by this, his unwavering stare. The man turns his head away, towards the action at the controls. He turns too, towards the captain and...and...him. Are they allowed to leave? He is letting them go? 

He cannot see though the haze, not really and he cannot hear over the noise. His heartbeat thumps much too loudly in his head. Something is buzzing, buzzing, flapping, flapping, flapping like a butterfly or a bee, or an antique analog radio that cannot get a station any longer, that snow, static crackling. Crackling. 

He’s now up on the pads, Scotty’s put him there, then the gentle hand lets go of him and those far too kind eyes glance at him to make sure he’s not going to keel over. But he doesn’t. There’s no time for that. He grits his teeth, plants his feet so that he does not collapse, there is no time for theatrics, no time for this. Jim and Uhura too are up on the pads. They’re ready to go. They’re leaving. They’re trusting their lives to this Spock. Should they? But there’s no other way, it’s this or nothing. The beam takes hold. He’s frozen, cannot move, but this time it’s a good thing.

*

They’ve materialized...somewhere. Transporter room, but which one? Kirk glances around. Bones, Scotty, Uhura are here, with him. Wearing the usual uniforms. They’re glancing around just like he is. Getting their bearings. The empire sign is gone. He glances over at the controls. Spock and Kyle. Spock’s in blue velour. But most importantly, Spock’s goatee is gone. Kyle is smiling. Things are back to normal at last. Home. They’re home. They made it. Unscathed. 

He steps off the platform, his officers follow. 

Spock’s reacting to their presence in an odd way. Never seen that before. He’s blinking a several times like there’s something in his eyes. Tilting his head. The Vulcan then closes his eyes for a longer interval, then opens them, as if trying to clear his head. Very strange. But he’s probably relieved at the sight of them. After what they just went though. Kirk understands, he is relieved to see his first officer again. Never thought he would. 

“Welcome home, Captain,” Spock says. 

Behind him, Bones promptly collapses to the deck. 

*

He regains consciousness in sickbay. His own sickbay. Home. His eyes are still closed when he hears Scotty whisper: “Jim, Dr. McCoy was not well in the transporter room of that other Enterprise.”

“Something happened to him?”

“I dinna know what precisely. Never seen him look so pale. Like he’d seen a ghost.”

He opens his eyes, spies the assembled around him, folding their arms. “What the hell all y’all lookin’ at? All y’all got duties to perform and you’re wasting precious time hovering over me.”

“Bones,” Jim says, the concern evident in his voice. “You passed out in the transporter room.”

“Well, that goddamned transporter beam was pretty rough. It took everything out of me.” He sits up on his elbows. Shakes his head to clear it, that buzzing that refuses to go away. “Don’t worry, Jim. I’m fine now.” Nothing a glass of bourbon won’t take care of. He shakes his head again. “How are you, Jim? Scotty?”

“We’re fine, Bones.”

“Good.” He shakes his head again. 

Spock mimics his action, shaking his head, closing his eyes. Grimaces a moment. Jim doesn’t notice, but he does. 

Spock suddenly raises his hand to his own face. Now Jim takes notice. “Spock? Everything alright?”

“I seem...I seem to have suddenly acquired a severe headache.”

“Oh. You need some aspirin. Probably,” Kirk replies.

“Excuse me,” McCoy says. He sits up, swings his feet around. “I’m gonna go up to the bridge, make myself comfy in that captain’s chair.”

“Sorry, Bones. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I do not require aspirin,” Spock insists. “I am fine.”

“Shut up about the fucking aspirin. Spock’s system cannot tolerate aspirin, Jim. Don’t you dare ever suggest aspirin for a Vulcan again, you hear me? That is a good way to poison him,” he seethes as he stands up. “And heaven forbid we poison our hobgoblin and we kill this pointy eared bastard, who then would we have on hand to make love to the ship’s computer on a regular basis, huh, Jim?”

Jim sighs. “Are you sure you are alright, Bones?”

“Said I was fine, didn’t I? Here, Spock, I have just the thing for you. Something much safer for your Vulcan hide. I’ll prescribe you some--”

“I do not require any medication at all, thank you Doctor.” Spock blinks again. “The headache is abating after all.”

The buzzing grows louder. McCoy shakes his head. Blinks. 

“Bones, are you sure you’re alright?” Jim asks again, once again that concern in his voice.

“I said, I’m fine, Jim. Just a little diz--I’ll be fine. Now unless you want a complete physical right at this very moment, get your asses out of my sickbay, stat!” he bellows out.

“Alright, Bones, we’re out of here, on the double.” Jim, Scotty and Spock head for the door. 

“Not you, Hobgoblin,” McCoy snaps. “Get your tiny little ass back here. You’re not going anyplace.” Spock halts mid step. The door shuts in Jim and Scotty's wake.

McCoy reaches over to grab his hypo and scanner. He advances towards the Vulcan. “Think you can bullshit me, Mr. Spock?” 

“Negative, Doctor.” Spock blinks.

“Don’t have a headache, my ass.” The type II scanner whirls. McCoy’s got the hypo at the ready and mutters: “I’m pretending that I don’t have a headache, Bones, because I don’t want to deal with your potions, so I’d rather just live with a dehabilitating migraine and be a stubborn ass.”

“I do not have a migraine, Dr. McCoy.”

“That ain’t what the scanner’s telling me. Don’t lie to your kindly old doctor. You can barely see straight with the pain. You don’t have a history of migraine, Mr. Spock. Anything happen to you while I was gone?” He looks at the scanner. “No concussion.”

“Nothing to me personally.”

“You fall down? Anybody punch you? Evil Kirk?”

“Negative.”

He glares at the scanner again. “Hmmm. Alright. Fine.” He presses the hypo into Spock’s arm. “Better?”

“Affirm--” Spock stops, shakes his head again. “Affirmative.”

“Well, alright. Now you go on. I need a stiff drink or three. Take it easy for awhile at least, Spock.” He reaches out to pat the first officer on the back. 

At the physical contact, Spock gasps then collapses to the deck. 

Seconds later, McCoy follows him down there.

*

Spock opens his eyes and finds himself lying supine, on the cold sickbay deck. There’s that constant fluttering in his mind, shifting, buzzing. There is a weight of a body on him. McCoy. The doctor's head is buried into his chest. His hand snakes around. He makes contact with the back of the man’s neck. His hand travels, caressing the soft hair.

It feels most pleasurable. McCoy’s body next to his. Feels. Most. Pleasurable.

The doctor's head jerks up. McCoy stares into his eyes and he realizes that the doctor has been avoiding his gaze since his return. But now, McCoy is as entranced as he is. The doctor's lips part, his breathing increases. 

One word appears in Spock’s mind: _Consummate_. 

_Consummate_.

 _Consummate_.

He yanks the doctor's head towards him. McCoy's lips are within millimeters of his own.

He claims that mouth with a brutal kiss. McCoy does not resist. 

He is appalled by his own behavior. He is shaken to the core as he does this. But there is a thrumming, a drum beat, an insistent drone of ‘ _consummate_ ’. A command that cannot be appeased. 

He shifts himself, rolls them both over so that he is now on top of the doctor, his genitals lining up with the other, his hips pushing the human’s into the deck. 

McCoy underneath him is glassy eyed, pliant. The doctor’s arms circle around his waist but the horrified expression in the blue eyes mirror what is present in his own mind. 

He must consummate. Consummate this.

McCoy swallows as Spock’s hands slide to the doctor’s waistband.

The turbolift doors swoosh open and he’s sliding off the doctor in a flash. He scrambles to his feet while grabbing McCoy’s hand. He struggles to help the man up, keep him upright. 

Nurse Chapel enters. “Doctor? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Nurse Chapel," McCoy tells her.

“Are you sure?”

“Something I can help you with, Christine?” McCoy does not sound like himself, he’s robotic in his responses. He has not let go of Spock’s hand. He’s clasping on in what feels like desperation. 

“Well, I--” Christine glances down at their intertwined fingers. “Oh. I’ll be in the ward if you need me.”

She quickly walks away. 

Their fingers are still intertwined. McCoy turns to face him, does not let go. Those eyes are haunted, terrified.

McCoy walks him to the door. It swooshes open for Spock but he does not move through them. Their fingers are still connected. They stand together, facing each other. 

Finally Spock finds the strength within himself, to pull their hands up, hold onto McCoy’s forearm, pry their fingers apart. He clamps onto the doctor’s wrist.

McCoy glances down at that wrist. Looks back up at Spock. 

Spock reaches out two fingers, caresses the man’s cheek. It takes everything from him to release McCoy and exit the sickbay though those doors.

*

The doors shut in Spock’s wake. Then they bounce back open. McCoy’s too close to the doors-- the sensor is fooled into thinking that he wants to follow. 

He does indeed want to follow Spock but he must not. He steps back, so that the doors will close again. 

He stumbles, staggers to his office. Finds that bottle of bourbon. Digs up a shot glass. Pours himself that drink. Downs it in one gulp. Pours himself another. Slams down into his chair. 

*

His body has responded. The erection is now painfully trapped in his trousers. 

He was thwarted this time but there is time enough to consummate. Later on. Patience. But not too much longer.

He enters the turbolift, closes his eyes. He sags a moment against the bulkhead. With extreme effort he wills the tumescence to go down. He straightens up before the doors open up on the bridge. 

He tugs on his uniform. He passes through the doors. The captain is in the command chair. 

“Everything alright, Mr. Spock?”

He gives a curt nod. “Affirmative, Captain.”

He strides past the captain, sits down at the library/science station. He picks up the transponder, places it in his ear. Runs diagnostic check after check. Anything to keep his mind off. Consummate.

*

He has a medical journal displayed on the monitor, but he does not see it. He pours himself yet another shot of bourbon. Anything to keep the feeling of those icy fingers seeping into his mind. And that declaration, that he now belongs to someone. The duty of consummation has somehow been shifted onto the counterpart, the good Spock, this one that his has known for years in his own universe will now fulfill the destiny. How that came to pass, he doesn’t know. Perhaps the transporter beam shifted something over. That must be it. Doomed himself and Spock to this inevitable prison of which they cannot escape.

He shudders with the knowledge of what will happen to him. Soon. His heart won't stop pounding in his ears.

He picks up the scalpel, runs the sharp blade along his palm. Aw, he must have went a bit too deep. Blood seeps out of the cut. He does not feel the pain. Red flows. He simply stares at it. 

“Doctor!” Nurse Chapel comes in, she’s aghast at the sight. He looks up at her, in surprise, then down again at his hand. There’s a pool of blood on his desk. 

“S’matter?” he slurs out. “Haven’t you ever seen anybody bleed out before?”

Chapel immediately darts into the ward, grabs a sterile cloth, then returns. She wraps it around his hand. “Doctor, I think you should come with me.” She grabs him around the waist.

“No,” he says pushing her away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“Nobody is allowed to touch me, besides--” 

“Besides who?”

“Nobody is allowed to touch me. Y’hear? Don’t touch me! Do not attempt physical contact with me.”

“Alright, alright. Doctor, stand up. Let me take care of that hand.”

“My hand is fine, my dear. Got the cloth to stem the bleeding.”

“That’s not enough. You need treatment so it stops. So your hand doesn’t become infected. Doctor you’re drunk.”

“I know, Christine. I know.” He stands up, manages to do so without assistance, without keeling over. “I’m heading to my quarters. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself.”

“Won’t you let me help you?”

“No, I’ll do it on my own.”

*

He pulls the transponder out of his ear. There is a sharpened piece pulling away from the device due to extended use. The metal scratches him. He holds the transponder tighter in his hand. The sharp metal digs into his flesh as he crushes the device in his hand. 

He opens his palm. Blood. 

“Mr. Spock?” He jumps slightly as he did not hear the captain walk up behind him. “You appear to be bleeding.” 

“Yes, Captain.”

Kirk’s hand covers his in an attempt to stem the flow. “Here, let me assist you.”

He pulls away. No one must touch him. 

Jim notices this. Withdraws slightly. “My apologies, Mr. Spock. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It is quite alright.” His own hand is clamped upon the wound. 

“Why don’t you head on over to sickbay? Get that taken care of. There’s nothing pressing going on here. Your shift is nearly over anyway.”

He stands. “Yes, Captain.”

He will go below decks, but it will not be to sickbay. Sickbay cannot, should not, help him.

*

He is almost completely sober when he returns to his quarters. He doesn’t know how, but he knows why. He must have full faculties for this. He strips off his uniform, leaves the clothing scattered over the deck. He darts into the shower, prepares himself. 

He cannot stop trembling. 

*

He heads into the shower in his quarters. Makes himself presentable. The tumescence has arrived again. He stares down at it, but does not touch it. Soon, soon. All will be taken care of. 

He exits the shower and clothes himself, not in his uniform, but in his black meditation robe. Rather than wear his uniform trousers, boots and black shirt underneath, he is nude and barefoot.

He is calm as he makes strides down the corridor, to the turbolift. The corridor is uncomfortably cool but things will be warm soon. There is a short ride up to deck seven. Then another walk down the corridor, past sickbay and to the cabin that interests him so. 

He does not signal at the door. He walks through as if he lives there. He will live here soon enough. Or they in his. 

The door is not barred. It it had been he would have had to break them down. 

It is suitably warm in here. An adjustment made for his comfort. McCoy sits on his bunk. The sweaty, captured prey. The man is also clad only in a robe. A black robe which is pleasing to the eye, but nothing is more pleasing than the nakedness of his mate. 

McCoy has the wide eyes of a trapped, terrified animal. His chest heaves. 

Suddenly the doctor scrambles away. Off the bed. Ah. Leonard wishes him to give chase. In these small quarters of the chief medical officer the doctor cannot get far. 

He grabs the man’s arm, swings him around. In the violence of the action, McCoy’s robe flutters then drops to the ground. There is no more clothing to protect him.

He easily corners the man. 

His own organ, aches. He lifts up his own robe to reveal his penis. McCoy sees it and turns pale. He spins the man around, shoves him against the bulkhead, lines himself up, pushes hard into the doctor, taking him, forcing into him with a mutual grunt. He notes that the doctor had placed lubricant inside of himself in an attempt to prepare but the doctor has never been penetrated before, never been stretched in such a way as this. But the doctor must be taken in both mind and body. 

The doctor screams out in agony at this but it does not matter, it does not subdue him, he takes and he takes as what must be done to consummate. He did not start this process, but somehow, he has taken on the mantle. Now he must finish this. He forces the doctor to stretch wide for him, accept his organ deep inside of him, all the way to the hilt. 

Now he puts forth his seed deep inside of the man. At the precise time the man also spills his seed over the bulkhead. 

They halt their movements and their breaths are both ragged. He places a hand on the doctor’s shoulder to steady him. Pulls himself out. He sags to the deck. There is blood, red human blood on him, covering his organ, his legs. Blood is all over McCoy, dripping out of him. McCoy collapses down against him giving out a strangled cry. 

He mirrors the cry out and says: “Forgive me.”

McCoy’s head rests against his chest. He emits a pitiful moan from deep within himself. 

He leans his own head against McCoy’s. Reaches over and caresses the soft hair. Closes his eyes for a only a moment. But soon he stands up, pulls the doctor up with him. That first time of penetration was only one of many. It is time for the doctor to be taken again. Then again and again and again and again.

He drags the man over to the bed and pushes him to all fours.

______________

End.


End file.
